


The Game - 2

by UglyWettieWrites



Series: The Game [2]
Category: Jean-Francois Mercier - Fandom, Spies of Warsaw
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Cat and Mouse, Dead Nazi(s), F/M, UglyWettieWrites, WWII action, damn that fucking Frenchman, spy against spy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9806741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UglyWettieWrites/pseuds/UglyWettieWrites
Summary: After their amazing afternoon, Jean-Francois has been searching for the dark-haired beauty who nearly succeeded in killing him at his most vulnerable. Now that he finally found her, will she be as easy to capture as he believes?





	

**14 Février 1938  
**

He shifted position on the unyielding stone, rubbed his eyes, and brought the binoculars to his face again.

They were done. How quick.

She put on her negligee, deep blue satin trimmed in cream lace. The binoculars were so powerful he could see the shadow of her sex-hard nipples.

His mouth twitched.

The pale, bilious bastard she’d been fucking rolled out of her sheets and scratched at his chest. A Nazi, by the medals on the suit he’d shed less than ten minutes before. He tried to grab at her, but she ducked gracefully from his grasp. She grinned openmouthed at him. She put on earrings. Diamonds. A gift.

He finished dressing behind her. She faced the window as she combed her black hair. The smile was gone.

There was a silver revolver on the sill, hidden between clay potted geraniums. He combed his yellow hair at her vanity. She put her brush down and put on some kid gloves, then screwed on a silencer. The man fiddled with his tie, oblivious.

His eyebrows arched over the binoculars. Could she be-

She turned. The Nazi’s mouth opened to scream, but she shot him in the throat, then pumped two bullets in his chest. He dropped like a sack of shit. She burst into action, rolling his body in the carpet underneath him.

His heart raced, but his face was impassive. He worked months to gather a dossier on the woman who had tried -

_-but had she really tried?-_

To kill him. Just like the dead Nazi, she’d fucked him. And it chilled his blood to know for sure that she would’ve been successful, had his death been the objective.

Her face had haunted him since that warm afternoon. That, and her adventurous mouth. She had not done those things with the Nazi. For him, it had been the standard bounce on his lap, but even then, she was artful.

He almost didn’t blame the man for coming so quickly.

“Il est mort heureux,” he said out loud. He died happy. And it was far more than he deserved.

She called someone. Her face was grave. She nodded and hung up, then dressed quickly. She wore an inconspicuous brown skirt suit.

Well, as inconspicuous as she could look. She was a stunning beauty.

She took off the earrings. Her raven hair was hidden under a cloche, a hat gone far out of style. She unscrewed the silencer from the revolver and wrapped it in a felt rag. She put on some muddy tan stockings. They looked a travesty on her smooth skin.

He watched as she paced her flat, her hands on her waist. She was waiting. At one point, she stood over the carpet wrapped body and kicked it. Repeatedly. Viciously. When she turned, her face was twisted into a mask of disgust. Maybe even agony.

Despite the chill, sweat dripped from his armpits down his sides.

A beat up sedan pulled up to the alley - the car she was waiting for, because she picked up her purse and gloves and left the apartment.

_Merde!_ He picked up his knapsack and ran down the four flights of stairs of the the building on whose roof he had been spying four steps at a time and ran out a side door. Nobody clocked him. Nobody cared.

She was already walking down the sidewalk as he cleared the alley. He hid behind some trash cans and watched. The car purred on neutral in the alley.

She turned the corner. He looked back and forth painfully, then followed her.

He ran deftly behind her in the light evening foot traffic. She walked quickly, but a bit stiffly. No one looked at her.

If they could only see who they were dismissing.

She walked into an alley, then stepped into a place with a soup sign over the door - a working-class restaurant. He pulled his pageboy low over his forehead and followed. No one stood at the door to greet him. There were tables draped in oilcloth, and a counter at which three sallow faced men slurped.

She sat in a dark corner, near the door to the kitchen, sipping on something. She felt comfortable enough to take off her hat. The men at the counter didn’t stir.

She looked at him boldly and stirred her beverage. He was momentarily stuck to the place he stood.

“Colonel,” she said, and pointed to the seat opposite her.

He put his hand in his jacket and sat down.

She gave him a half smile. “No need for that, Jean. I’m unarmed.”

He took his thumb off the hammer and put his hand on the table. Fresh mint leaves floated in her steaming cup.

“Did you get a good show, Colonel?”

He remained silent.

“You have questions. I might have answers.”

“Why did you kill him?”

“Because I was ordered to, although it was my pleasure. Next?”

“You are a Nazi assassin. A plant.”

“Yes. Is that it?”

“And they ordered you to kill that man?”

“They? No. Your questions aren’t very well-worded, Mercier. I must be going.” She picked up her hat and stood up. He followed, but in the blink of an eye she had reached into his jacket and taken his weapon. The muzzle now hovered at the level of his eyes, just out of his reach.

“Keep watching, Colonel. Maybe then you’ll have better questions.”

The men at the counter did not even look their way. When he looked back, she was gone.

* * *

He ran out through the kitchen, but the alley was empty. Again, she had disarmed him. And again, she had not taken the opportunity to kill him.

He went back to the apartment building and climbed the stairs to where the murder had occurred. The door was open. He patted in his boot for a knife and backed carefully into it. The apartment still smelled faintly of her perfume mixed with the iron tang of blood.

But it was empty. The body was gone. He did a quick recon of the three rooms, but there was no one there, and no evidence that there had been. The bed had been made with fresh sheets. The scuffed wood floor was clean.

He put the knife between his teeth and started to look through the bureau drawers. They were empty, save for clean linen. He shook them open, and they drifted around his head like shrouds, but there was nothing. He looked in the closet. It was empty. He went to the kitchen and opened the cabinets. There was only vodka and powdered soap.

He was perplexed.

She played the part of a kept woman very well. Why would that man consent to see her there, in that shitty flat? It didn’t even have a lavatory. He had marked the man’s face well - he would go through the hundreds of archived photos of Nazis and Nazi sympathisers and find out who he was.

But the mystery of who _she_ really was loomed larger.

She had kicked the dead body so angrily. It smacked of a personal affront to him.

He went back to the closet turned on the light. He carefully touched the doorjamb, then moved down the wood floor. His persistence paid off - a board came off easily after just a little prodding. An old shoebox was jammed into the hole in the floor.

He pulled it out and stared at it for a bit. It looked like a girl’s shoebox, no more than 25 cm long. He opened it. There was an old velvet ribbon, a rich blue color, but balding at the edges.  A little wood doll with red painted cheeks. A letter, addressed to a Sylvia Mountbatten, in English, in an envelope with Minnie Mouse on it. He pulled it out, and a photo fell on his lap.

Two smiling girls, arm in arm, with a lake behind them. One was blonde, one had dark hair. He squinted at the image. The one with dark hair had a long, slim face, with limbs to match. The blonde was shorter, but she already had twin buds stretching the front of her striped suit and blooming hips. The curve of her lips was familiar.

He flipped the photo, and there was something written on the back.

Catskills, USA, 1927

Sylvia and Rachel

Which is Sylvia? More importantly, _who_ is Sylvia, and why had she hidden the shoebox?

He heard a hammer cock and turned to see her standing in the middle of the bedroom, his gun pointed at his chest.

“It looks like you found my secret stash, Colonel.” She kicked the knife he’d laid on the floor into the next room. He was completely unarmed now. She walked confidently to him and snatched the photo and letter from his hand. He studied her dark hair, the delicate planes of her face. She couldn’t be the dark haired girl. That girl would’ve grown to be tall and skinny. She was petite, curvy.

She put the letter in the box and tucked it under her arm.

“You’re tenacious, Jean. I’ll give you that.” She eyed his lips, then her gaze traveled slowly to his eyes. She bit her own unpainted lip. “Fucking Frenchman,” she said in English. His eyes widened in surprise. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

He felt a flash of pain, then all slid easily into darkness.


End file.
